


Babel

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:06:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1730561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the storm of the Crag, Theon takes an arrow that was meant for Robb. </p><p>Days later, ravens start arriving from the north.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round 2 of the Smutty Westeros Exchange on LJ, for Kyn. Prompt: _Theon gets seriously injured. Cue intense relief sex that Theon isn't going to die._ I veered from the prompt slightly but this should still fit the bill. :) Warning for underage; Robb's about 16, Theon's about 20.

Dead in defence of a Stark.

Theon is too weak to laugh, but he feels a bitter one scratching at the back of his throat, copulating with the blood coated there. His head feels too heavy to even think about wresting his eyes open, but he is almost certain that it is the Smalljon who has him by the legs, and Dacey with her strong hands beneath his armpits. They’d both been nearby when the bolt whizzed past, when instinct had overtaken sense and Theon’s body moved in ways he probably won’t live to curse.

“A room! Get him to a room, and bring me your maester! Now!”

Ah, there it is. Regal and young, urgent and fierce, laced with panic. The voice of his king. Robb has been growing into his crown these past few months, becoming more and more at ease with his title, but in this moment, he sounds fourteen and scared. Theon doesn’t need to be told why. The bolt had found the weakest spot in his chest plate and crashed into a spot that is too close to his heart. Theon can feel his life slipping out of him, and Robb can probably see it. 

“This way, Your Grace, he can have my chambers,” a soft voice is saying.

“Hurry!”

Robb’s voice is fading, and Theon does not have the wherewithal to catch it before it slips away. He coughs, and blood gurgles at his mouth. Dead in defence of a fucking Stark, those who had the power to kill him in any other way. If only his father could see him now.

~~~

He opens his eyes to screaming pain. 

There are strangers at his bedside, faces that he thinks he might know but cannot place. One of them, thick-muscled and huge, is pressing him down into the sheets, calming his movements. A pretty brown-skinned girl with curls down to her waist is standing on his other side, wearing a blood-stained apron and an anxious expression. A wizened old man hovers near his torso, peering down with a grim face. 

“Can you do it?” says a voice that Theon’s memory tells him that he should know. It shakes. “Can you take it out?”

“I can, Your Grace.” The old man’s voice is cautious. “But it will go hard on him. There is a large chance that the bolt will do more damage coming out than it did going in.”

“But it cannot…”

“No, Your Grace. We cannot leave it be.”

Theon lurches, and his mind suddenly homes in on the source of his pain: the bolt in his chest and the wound that gapes and bleeds. His body writhes again, without asking leave of his brain, but the burly arms hold him steadily in place. The owner of the second voice comes into view, pale faced and auburn haired. He looks grim and sick as he nods at the old man.

“Do it. But by all the gods you hold dear, preserve his life.”

“I will try, Your Grace. Lady Jeyne, the milk of the poppy, if you would.”

The girl moves forward, and cradles his chin with a gentleness that feels foreign across all the agony in his skin. The milky substances slides down his throat, sip after sip, and Theon wants to fight it, but his body is giving up on even that. The dark awaits, and outside, a wolf howls.

~~~

He doesn’t expect to open his eyes another time. When he does, it takes a full few minutes for Theon to fight through the fragments of memories, the haze of his latest recollections.

The Crag. They’d been planning the taking of the keep for days on the march, and it was meant to go smoothly. Robb had Theon as ever at his side, slightly strained though things had been between them, ever since Robb changed his royal mind at the last moment, and had Stevron Frey sent in his place to parley with his lord father on Pyke. Siding with Lady Stark, over him. It smarted, and smarts still, but Theon had swallowed his hurts and produced a smile. After more than eleven years, he is well practiced in the procedure. 

Being at the king’s side was still a position of honour. He delivered Robb’s orders, got his own directly from the lips of his king, fought alongside him. And when the time came, he was appropriately placed to push the king to the side and catch the bolt that had been flying to tear through him.

Theon winces, coughs, and is unpleasantly surprised to find that even doing that much hurts. But the pain comes dully, not with the fresh agony that had pierced him from the time of his wounding. He sits up as much as he can, looking down at his chest. It is bare, save for the bandages that wrap thickly around it. A hand reaches for the point of impact before he can stop himself. The pain throbs across his flesh in a dull ache, but it comes as a relief. Pain means that he is alive, that this is no death dream beneath the sea.

The thought makes him snort, and that hurts too. He cleaves no more to the Drowned God than he does to the memory of his family. The salty ocean air slipping in through the window left ajar is the closest he’s come to the sea in many a year. 

His room belongs to a maiden; that much is apparent from all the frills and frippery. Theon spends a few moments trying to decide how to best manoeuvre his way out of the bed and to his feet before the door edges open, and the former occupant shows her face.

“I… oh!” Jeyne, if his cottony memory serves him well, dips into a curtsey, her mouth a little rounded ‘o’. She had been there at his bedside, alongside Robb and the Smalljon and the castle’s maester. “You’re awake! Please excuse me, he asked to be fetched as soon as you came to.”

And she disappears out the door, curls flying behind her. When the door opens again, minutes later, Theon has only managed to push himself into a more upright position, and sweats with it. Looking out through the fall of his hair, he sees his foster brother and his king framed in the doorway, one hand clutching the wood, looking as if he’s had a sleepless walk through all seven hells. 

Theon fights for a smile.

“Seen a ghost, Your Grace?”

Robb’s laugh sounds breathless, and he approaches.

“I thought I told you that you didn’t have to call me that when we’re alone,” he says. A hand finds anchor on the headrest, just left of Theon’s nape.

“But we aren’t alone,” Theon points out. Jeyne is hovering near the door, a tray laden with food clasped in her hands. Robb beckons her in, smiles his thanks warmly if shakily as she deposits the tray on the bed, and asks her if she could please send for the maester. She obeys with a bob of her head, slipping out.

“A pretty little thing,” Theon remarks when she is gone. He tugs the tray closer, closes his palm around a heel of bread. “Tits are on the small side, but with hips and an arse like that…”

“Enough,” says Robb, but there’s no bite behind it. Just exasperation, and the fondness he’d always been quick to notice, coming from the only Stark who felt anything for him. “I worried that you might not recover to be the same as you’d always been, but I can see now that those doubts were unfounded.”

The hand near his neck rises and hovers, and part of Theon expects to be embraced. It does not come, but Robb’s hand finds a new home on his shoulder, skin calling to skin.

Theon doesn’t acknowledge it, as much as he might want to.

“How long has it been?”

“Two days, approaching three.”

Theon’s eyebrows arch on his forehead. “It was bad, then.”

“Very.” Robb’s voice is low. “We feared for your life. Just a bit further to the left and the bolt would have taken your heart. Even after the maester managed to remove it without damaging you further, it began to fester, and you had a fearsome fever… it wasn’t sure whether you’d ever wake up again.” 

He can remember, if he tries very hard, a snippet of a conversation like that, heard through a haze of pain. He tells Robb as much.

“Can you also recollect, then, what you did for me?” Robb’s voice pitches even lower, and yet he sounds even younger for it, fourteen all over again. “That bolt was meant for me; you pushed me to safety and it took you instead.”

“Aye, I can remember something like that.” Theon grins, because it is all he knows. “Your kingly instinct proved right, to keep me by your side.”

Robb doesn’t return his smile; he looks down at him seriously. His fingers tighten on Theon’s shoulder.

“I am ever grateful, Theon. I want you to know that. You have fought bravely and loyally, beyond the measure of most, and it will not soon be forgotten.”

Theon glances up. Robb’s eyes are shadowed with the royal mien that he’s had to adopt since the Whispering Wood, but beneath it is the earnest sheen of the boy who’s always looked up to him, in everything. Theon has longed to hear those words from his mouth, longed to hear them and have them propel him to his father’s side, where even more glory and recognition would await him as a prince in his own right. That was not to be, but, as foolish as it is, when looking at Robb’s eyes he can understand a little better the impulse that turned him from sworn guard to human shield.

He flicks his eyes down.

“Your Grace,” he murmurs. 

Robb fills him in on the taking of the castle as he eats, slowly and careful, as every swallow seems to stab at him. His own injury and a few others aside, it had all gone in accordance with their plans. Ser Rolph yielded the keep earlier than expected, just after the bolt had sent Theon to his knees. They are to remain in the west for some time longer, at least until most of the injured can move once again. There are only so many castles to take, and Robb and the Blackfish’s plan to lure Tywin Lannister west must come to fruition soon, or be abandoned. And there is no word yet from Stevron Frey, and the ravens that Robb sent towards Pyke have all been unanswered. Theon wonders what his father is thinking, holed up on his slab of rock.

The maester, a stooping old man named Shaydon that he remembers mostly by his voice, arrives with Jeyne. Theon’s bandages are changed and the wound cleaned, and Robb remains throughout it, holding fast to his shoulder, even when Theon insists he doesn’t need to stay.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Shaydon says as he finishes up. “The gods have blessed you greatly, young ser. The wound will always pain you, like as not, but once you give yourself time to heal and make certain not to put the area under any extra duress, you should be able to move normally again in the future.”

Robb’s relief is thick, and cuts through the air like a blade. Theon catches him looking at him as the maester gathers his things. It hadn’t been an unusual experience for him to find Robb gazing at him curiously when they were younger. But it’s different this time; upon being discovered, Robb doesn’t look away. Theon feels his own relief being compounded by something else, something unnameable.

“Thank you, Maester Shaydon,” Robb says, and the words seem to order him from the room twice as fast. Despite Theon’s protests that he would rather have a pretty chambermaid for the job, Robb then helps him down the last of his wine, and settles him back down on the mattress. The duvet is adjusted, his pillows are fluffed, and he shuts the open window.

“Well,” Theon quips, “it’s good to know that if being king ever stops suiting you, you have the position of nursemaid to fall back on.” His eyes are getting heavy, from a combination of his weakness and the wine and the milk of the poppy that had surely been in it, but he can still see when Robb smiles. 

“Rest,” he says, and makes it sound a command. Like most things that have fallen from Robb’s mouth since he put up his lordship and donned an iron and bronze crown, it is an easy order to follow.

Theon’s eyes dip closed, but sleep does not take him yet. He breathes and listens to Robb breathe for minutes on end. There is silence between them, but it is of an amicable sort, heavy with things that do not need to be said.

Just before Theon drifts off into sleep, Robb kisses him.

Twice; once pressing on his forehead, once grazing across his lips. The gesture is brotherly and nothing more. Theon has seen Robb offer it many a time to his younger brothers; usually when they are half asleep like he is, and do not care to protest that they are too old for kisses. 

At his side, his fingers twitch. Robb must know that he is awake, he must; Theon’s breathing had changed audibly before going still altogether. But he says nothing. He only lingers for a moment, and then leaves with a rustle at the door.

~~~

The days pass slowly. Theon is impatient to be rid of this bed and the room that it lies in, but even without the maester telling him otherwise, his own body is treacherous, and will not support him for long. He spends his days with Jeyne and the maester, poor companions more often than not. Sometimes, the northern soldiers find time from their duties to stop in for a word, but the only visits he truly relishes are Robb’s.

Today, when he enters the room, Theon sits up immediately. Robb closes the door behind him, but not before Theon sees the Blackfish and the Greatjon, looking grave as they walk away. He furrows his brows, but says nothing on it yet.

“Where is that wolf of yours?” he asks instead, as a greeting. “I haven’t seen him since the battle.”

“Grey Wind is fine,” Robb says, taking up his usual chair by the bed. He is without his crown, looks pale, and something about his voice is wooden. “Jeyne is frightened of him, and I try not to bring him this way. I try not to bring him into the castle at all. It’s the least I can do. She’s been staying with her sister since giving up her room.”

“Oh, that can be rectified. I’m well enough to move about a bit on my own now, I—”

“Theon,” Robb interrupts. “I’m sorry, but there’s been some news.”

At once, he can tell from Robb’s tone that it does not brook well. He lifts himself up again, moving until his back is against the headrest and ignoring the now ubiquitous pain in his chest. It is as dignified as he can get.

“Go on.”

The words come haltingly, as if locked in a cage that Robb is loath to see open to the light.

“We’ve had a raven from the north. Several of them, actually. They tell of raiders, killing and pillaging and looting along the Stony Shore, more of them at Deepwood Motte, and more still at Moat Cailin.” He takes a deep breath. “Ironborn raiders.”

Ice forms in Theon’s chest, and drops to his stomach like a stone. He clenches his jaw tight.

“My father…” He grits his teeth. “My father has rebelled,” he finishes, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

“Yes.” Robb sounds miserable. “I thought at first that he might have had word of your injury, and thought you dead, but the timing isn’t right. The raids would have started even before we mounted the attack on the Crag.”

Of course Robb had considered that; it is a kind, honourable thing to think. Theon wants to believe it too, even while his heart is constricting bitterly. It would be far better than being stared in the face with a truth that is worse than ten bolts to the chest: Balon Greyjoy had weighed his options, and not found the life of his son worth the wait.

“Now we know the fate of Stevron Frey,” Theon hears himself say. Imprisoned, if Balon has any small bit of regard left for his son’s life; dead if not. Anger is easing all throughout his body, anger at the injustice and folly of it all, his life thrown away for his father’s ambitions. The fury builds behind his eyes, alongside a curious sense of finality. A little boy inside of him started fearing this day when he was ten years old, and had never stopped. And now it is here.

“That does explain his silence,” Robb is saying. He places his hand on the bed, close to Theon’s wrist. “Theon…”

“A pity the Lannisters haven’t returned your father’s sword,” Theon interrupts in a sardonic tone. “Nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel.”

“ _Theon_ ,” Robb snaps again, louder this time. He grips Theon’s wrist. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t allow it.”

Theon hears what he is not saying.

“Who are the biggest dissenters?” Karstark, he would imagine; the old man had always seemed to think that Theon should have fallen in place of one of his sons at the Wood. Ryman Frey perhaps, for if his father isn’t already dead, Theon’s beheading might well see to it, and assure his place as heir to the Twins.

“That doesn’t matter—”

“But there _are_ dissenters, aren’t there?” Theon presses. He needs to hear it. “Those who want me dead.”

Robb’s knuckles are turning white around his wrist; he doesn’t think his king notices, but the discomfort is a welcome sort of pain, a distraction from all the other kinds of hurt he is experiencing.

“They think that not executing you will show weakness, send a message to… to your father that he can do as he likes without consequence. An agreement was made, and it must be honoured.”

“Mayhaps he thinks that that agreement died with your father and Robert Baratheon.” For the second time in days, Theon wonders what his father _was_ indeed thinking.

“We all know oaths do not work that way. He bent the knee, he _swore_...” A flash of fury strikes Robb’s eyes. “Damn him. Gods _damn_ him! I would have given him his blasted crown if he wanted it so badly. Did he not read the bloody letter?”

It weighs on Theon’s mind as well. Would the offer have seemed sweeter coming from his own lips, or Robb’s? The Ironborn are a prickly, easily insulted folk, as he remembers.

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever have the chance to ask him, now.”

His king turns his gaze straight on him, blue eyes ablaze.

“I won’t allow it, Theon,” he repeats. There is frustration mingling with his anger. “You have proven yourself, fought by my side. You saved Bran’s life. You may have saved _my_ life by taking that arrow. You certainly protect it every time you ride with me in battle. The gods almost took you, a few days ago, but they saw fit to preserve your life in the end. I _will not_ take it away.”

The passion in his voice swells hard, accompanied by the blood rising fiercely in his cheeks. He always flushes when hot-tempered or worried; Theon would tease him mercilessly about it when they were younger. It is on the tip of his tongue to do so now, cut through the tension with a grin and some stupid jape.

Instead, he looks Robb in the eyes. Comfort isn’t exactly what he needs, but still, there is something comforting about Robb’s outburst, and his storm-like pupils in the aftermath of it.

“You have my thanks,” he says, because he should.

Robb presses his lips together, and stands.

“You _have_ gotten better but… you’ll remain here for now. Not everyone feels the same, but I think I can get them all to agree on something. They made me their king; they’ll have to stand by it. In the meantime, I’ll make my apologies to Jeyne and send Grey Wind to stand outside your door.”

Theon nods. Robb stands at his side for a long moment before he finally releases Theon’s wrist, as if only just realising that he held it. The skin that he’d gripped is stark white, and blood pounds around the perimeter of the mark. Robb looks at it for a moment more before glancing up to meet Theon’s eyes. They aren’t closed this time, but he still folds at the waist and deepens a kiss onto his forehead. Theon feels the mark of his lips, warm and hard.

When he turns to leave, it is Theon’s turn to grab Robb by the wrist, halting him.

“What about the other one?” he asks. He feels reckless, miles beyond his usual measure of boldness. There is nothing to lose for it now.

“The other…?” Robb looks confused for a moment before his eyes flick back to a memory, and then to Theon’s lips. His face starts to redden again. “Theon, I…”

“I don’t mind,” he says. He sits up straighter, as much as he can, but doesn’t release Robb’s hand. “Go on, do it. Wouldn’t be complete otherwise.”

Robb wets his bottom lip slowly, chews on it. Theon watches the gesture; he knows it well, from the nights he’d tried and succeeded in making Robb squirm, telling him about the tavern wenches and serving girls he’d charmed and fucked. There is little of the king in that movement.

“Theon, I can’t…”

“You’re the king,” Theon snorts. He might be going too far, but he ploughs on recklessly anyway. “You’re about to save my life, or try to. Surely you can give me a little kiss.”

The word seems to make Robb’s cheeks burn more. Theon hungers after that look, and perhaps it’s the blood pounding in his head that makes him tug Robb down by his wrist, and cup him at the back of his neck.

There is nothing brotherly about this kiss; Theon makes sure of that. Robb starts against his lips, gasping, and he seizes the opportunity to slide his tongue out, lick the boy’s lips and tongue. A moan comes back in answer, and Robb dips forward, leaning into his mouth. Theon slants his head and takes the kiss deeper, scraping his teeth across his bottom lip, sucking it red. Robb whimpers a little, and it’s nothing like Theon could have ever imagined. It’s better.

It goes on for longer than he’d strictly planned, and when it ends, it’s Robb pulling away. Theon looks up at his king. His eyes are blown, pupils dark and huge with desire. He is panting slightly, and Theon thinks he might be as well.

Robb straightens, and heads for the door. Theon doesn’t even have time to curse, or think on what this might mean for him now; Robb only locks it, and makes his way back to his side. 

The king comes upon him like his wolf upon an enemy, kissing him hard and with intent. Theon leans up into it hungrily, only to hiss when the pain in his side, which had been fading into the background, comes back with a sharp stab. Robb’s kisses move to his cheek and jaw, and his hands are gentle as he coaxes Theon down onto the pillows.

“Lie back,” he says, his voice as rough as the seas. His hand fumbles down to Theon’s side to hold his hand; Theon grips it back without thinking.

Robb’s beard tickles against his throat as he kisses his way down there, and then back up, teeth scraping with gentle strokes. The rough scratch of stubble is not unfamiliar to him, but it’s been years since he felt it. He doesn’t fuck men often; doesn’t much like them at all. But this isn’t just some man. It’s Robb, with his auburn hair tangling Theon’s fingers when he runs his hand through it, with his soft tongue and hard little noises. Theon knows his friend doesn’t have much experience; he’d been all but untouched when he called the banners. But his kisses now tell that he’d gotten some practise, somewhere along the way. 

The thought makes him possessive, and he breaks away from Robb’s mouth to nuzzle along his throat, kiss bruises into the spot where his pulse runs hot. Were he at full strength, he would pull Robb down, flip him onto the mattress and learn all the things that make him moan. As it is, he can only grip tightly at his hair, run a hand over his chest and back, and shift as his cock grows hotter and harder by the second.

“I can’t lose you now,” Robb is whispering against his lips, tight and urgent. Theon feels his prick throb, squeezing out a drop of moisture. “I can’t lose you.”

If Theon had any sense, he’d stop this thing he’d started before it can go into irreversible places. He’s been more selfish than he can afford to be for years, though, and when one of Robb’s hands cups his cheek, rubbing there with a softness that belies the raw hunger of his kiss, he only lets it remain there for a few moments. Soon, he’s taking the hand, and pushing it below his waist.

Robb’s breathing speeds up to a short pant, and he pulls away, watching Theon with a flushed face and dark eyes. His lips are red and swollen, perfect for slipping a cock between them. Theon’s already ragged breathing gets shaky.

“Go on,” he says. He glances down at his body, at the protruding hardness that is obvious beneath the cover. “Touch it if you’d like to.”

Theon very much hopes he’d like to. It takes Robb less than a second to decide; after that moment he’s throwing the covers aside and moving so that he can undo Theon’s breeches. He hisses when his cock bounces free, dark red with arousal and leaking little drops of fluid. The sea air seems to caress it like silk.

Robb stares at his prick for a good minute, face red. Then, he seems on a mission to rid Theon of every article of clothing that he can; first to go are the trousers, then the smallclothes. He tries for his shirt, but Theon knows that it will be too complicated, and waves him away from the area. Instead, he brings Robb in for another kiss, moaning when Robb finally closes a fist around his cock. The wetness of his pre-come is not long in spreading all over his prick as Robb jerks him, slow and unpractised. 

“Is that… is that alright?” Robb asks, breath hot against Theon’s mouth. Theon nods, rolling his hips as much as he can, feeling his cock slide within Robb’s hold, sending pulses of pleasure from his centre outward.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning his head back as Robb kisses his way down his throat and along his sternum, going lower to gently caress the bandages beneath his shirt. He can come like this, he thinks, breath shuddering as Robb strokes him, sometimes tickling at the head, sometimes teasing at his bollocks. But Robb doesn’t stop moving, kissing down his ribcage and covered stomach until he’s pressing a little kiss to the tip of his cock. Theon gasps, lips and toes curling in pleasure.

“Is that…” Robb starts again, and Theon buries a hand in his hair. 

“It’s better than alright,” he whispers, and watches as Robb gives the barest hint of a smile.

His wound twinges painfully as he levers himself up, but it would be murder _not_ to watch as Robb licks a line unsurely up his cock, then spreads his lips to take him in. Theon gasps, trembling as the head and a few inches disappears into the wet heat. With difficulty, he controls the urge to thrust, and instead lets Robb set the pace. He switches between licking and sucking at him, and just the sight of him down there intoxicates Theon. He’s imagined this before, what it would be like to have a Stark sucking on his cock, a king in _his_ power for once. But what he sees now is neither Stark nor king; it’s only Robb.

Robb pulls off, panting a little, but moves back in at once, pressing kisses all along Theon’s length. A kiss on the underside near his crown makes his hips jump, and Robb does it again, sucking at the spot until Theon groans. Then he takes him into his mouth again, sucking so hard Theon can’t help but thrust his hips a little.

“Fuck,” he bites out, not willing to take his eyes off of the sight in front of him for even a moment. It’s obvious that Robb doesn’t have much experience with this, but still every touch sends shivers shooting up Theon’s body. He feels the familiar pressure building in his balls, and rocks with it. Robb is using a hand to lightly stroke his length while his lips stay fastened on the crown, licking away every drop that he produces. When he looks up, blue eyes blown and staring straight into his own, Theon feels the pleasure roiling in him thunder to its peak.

“Robb, I—” is all he manages to gasp in warning. Robb pulls away, but doesn’t stop stroking him as he comes, spattering the bed and his stomach and Robb’s hand with it. It drains him, making dull lights explode behind his eyes, and a minute later, he twitches still in the loose-limbed ecstasy of it.

Robb is wiping his mouth, looking as if he can’t believe he just did what he did. The moment passes; Theon beckons to him, and the king slips his tunic over his head in one smooth movement before joining Theon on the bed, lying on his side to face him.

“Get that off, Your Grace,” he says, shuffling until he’s lying on his good side and nodding to Robb’s trousers. In lieu of waiting to see it done, he leans forward, kissing those red lips. The taste of his come is bitter and salty in his mouth, but he sucks Robb’s tongue between his lips anyway, hearing how it makes him pant, makes him squirm. He trails a hand down Robb’s chest, finding his nipples hidden amidst the auburn curls. They’re already hard, pink tips peeking out, and Theon licks two of his fingers so that he can rub them even harder.

“Oh, gods.” Robb’s eyes are closed, but only for a moment; he can’t seem to stop himself from looking. His cock is out and grasped in his hand, stiff and wet, and he already seems close. Theon shifts as much as he can, replacing the fingers on Robb’s nipples with his mouth, and replacing Robb’s hand on his prick with his own. Robb bucks in his hand immediately, holding on to his good shoulder. “Theon, please…”

“Shhh,” he says, and bends his head again to suck on Robb’s nipples. The king breathes heavily, flexing his hips and pushing his cock into Theon’s fist. The noises he makes are very soft and earnest, and they all shoot straight to Theon’s head. He recoils by a fraction to see Robb flutter his lashes, bite his lip. Theon imagines fucking him; imagines, with a jolt, being fucked _by_ him, and whispers as much in Robb’s ear as he continues to stroke him. Robb’s eyes blaze, and he makes an abrupt, breathy sound as he climaxes, coming in the twist of Theon’s fist.

Theon kisses him through it, on his lips and his stubbly jaw. When his little gasps peter out, Theon lies back, fixing himself against the headboard and easing the ache that had been building up near his wound. He finds a layer of bedding to wipe his hand on, and then cleans up his stomach and cock. Robb sits up, doing the same with slightly shaky hands. Theon observes him for a moment as he rights himself and dons his clothes. 

“Not to worry, Your Grace,” he can’t help saying. “I drank my moon tea; you won’t have gotten me with child.”

That coaxes a small smile to his lips. Robb walks round the bed, coming to sit again on the chair.

“That was…” He runs pale fingers through his hair. “That probably should not have happened.”

“But it did. And it was good,” Theon adds, daring Robb to disagree. The look on his face says that he can’t. He nods.

“Aye, it did. And it was. And… we’ll be alright. _You’ll_ be alright. I swear it.”

He looks directly into Theon’s eyes as he says it, and everything that he has been endeavouring to forget for the past twenty minutes comes back to him with a slam. Balon’s rebelling, the death that might await him. But he holds on to the conviction in Robb’s eyes rather than dwell on it, holds on to the fierce certainty that his king seeks to provide. 

“Do you believe me?” Robb asks, looking hard at Theon as if he needs to hear it, as if being sure of it will make it quicker come true. Theon’s blood is still hot, but it settles at that look, cooling into something constant and sure. Robb had been the only Stark to treat him as more ward than hostage, as more brother than outsider. He kept him by his side when it mattered. Theon isn’t ready to die this day, or any day soon, but perhaps dying for Robb’s sake and by his side would be meet after all. They are brothers.

“I believe you,” Theon says, and answers Robb’s grim smile with one of his own.

~~~

The pain in his chest is a constant, but after Robb leaves that afternoon he starts learning to live with it, walk through it without having to pause too often for breath. He itches for a sword in hand, a bow to stretch with his fingers, but there are, of course, none readily available, and the maester would raise a fuss if Theon tried. So instead, as he occupies his limbs, he occupies his mind.

Robb returns the next day with news of a council to be held. As in battle, Theon wants to go where the fighting is thickest.

“I should be there,” he insists. “It’s me they’ll be discussing.” It doesn’t take long for Robb to consent.

He has his young squire sent up to help dress Theon, and when Olyvar leaves, Robb slips in, Grey Wind a hulking shadow next to him. He closes the door behind them, barring the guards outside from view. Theon stands ready at his bedside, and walks to meet Robb halfway across the room. His friend looks tired but determined; an old look on him now, after being king for more than a year. Theon wonders what things he’s had to do and say between this moment and the day before. 

Grey Wind slips between them, prepared to support Theon should he stumble. No man should have to lean on his king, but Theon feels as if the direwolf is a direct conduit to Robb nonetheless.

“Are you ready?” Robb asks, nodding at the door. Theon feels a myriad of answers bubble up in him — _of course, no, foolish question Your Grace_ — but goes with the one that first reaches his tongue.

“Not yet.”

Robb smiles, and Theon knows he won’t have to explain. Before he leads the way to the door, the king leans over to kiss Theon twice. Once on his forehead, once across his lips.


End file.
